


(tell me that you) love me, babe

by remmyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Barista Dean Winchester, Cas is a sarcastic asshole, DeanCas Sweetheart 2018, Fluffy as hell, M/M, Shmoop, dean has no chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:09:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme
Summary: “Thanks, snookums,” the man deadpans, giving nothing away, and with a brisk turn on his heel is striding towards the door; and while it should be impossible with his casual speed and the stubborn lack of an indoor, gusty breeze, the man’s tan trench gives the strongest impression of dramatic billowing Dean’s ever actually seen. Because this is real life, not a goddamn Billy Wilder film. And also,what the fuck.





	(tell me that you) love me, babe

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Led Zeppelin's ['Love Me Like A Hurricane'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3TSSQ9WcsiU)
> 
> Many many many thanks to both [jad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/pseuds/jad) and [vaudelin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vaudelin/pseuds/vaudelin) for the much-needed cheerleading!!
> 
> Written for the [Dean/Cas Sweetheart Challenge](http://deancas-sweetheart.tumblr.com/). Happy Valentine's!

Dean’s buffing a cloth over the shining silver siding of the espresso machine – because appearance _matters_ , thank you very much – when the bell above the door alerts him that his attention is needed at the register. Dean turns to see two customers, a man and a woman accompanied by a gust of chill November air, enter the shop and approach the counter. The woman, a redhead in a sharp, dark pea coat, catches Dean’s eye and smiles a greeting while her companion hangs a half-step behind, focus seemingly consumed by the menu board above and behind Dean’s back.

Dean feels his best customer service smile pull at his cheeks; the rakish, familiar grin and posture he affects when confronted with a friendly smile and pretty face, the stance and charm he effortlessly falls into at least fifty times a day.

And it _is_ a pretty face, Dean notes, brain catching up with his body; both on the redhead and her man, the striking blue eyes and the unusual, still sense of focus.

“Hi, there,” Dean greets. “What can I—”

“Broccoli,” the man states, eyes still to the menu but now with a thoughtful air to the tilt of his head and lilt in his voice, low and smoky-rough.

Dean cuts off with a blink, thrown momentarily off-track from his usual script. “Uh…”

The girl, however, makes a tight noise and short, abortive move seemingly born of pure frustration, as if about to throw her hands to the sky in supplication to a being with far more insight and patience than she. “Broccoli _what?_ ” she demands, turning to face her companion before immediately swivelling back to Dean with a quick “sorry,” then again to the man, “Salad? Casserole? No one brings plain steamed broccoli to a Thanksgiving!”

Understanding dawns, and Dean hides a smile to see the man’s mouth flatten in a way that means that was, in fact, exactly what he was thinking. Chick has a point, though.

“Cheese,” Dean suggests, drawing the sharp attention of two separate shades of piercing blues. “Just...drown it in cheese, dude,” he continues, hesitant, suddenly afraid of overstepping by gracelessly tramping over the time-honored customer/server tradition of playing deaf and dumb to any and all chatter spouted in his general vicinity. He powers through in a nervous rush, “Better than broccoli salad any day.”

The man’s nose scrunches in apparent distaste. “Raisins,” he grumbles, then drops his eyes, withdrawing into quiet contemplation of, presumably, appropriate greens-based Thanksgiving offerings.

The woman slants Dean a commiserative look, which Dean can’t help but return with a grin, something much more genuine and comfortable than his typical customer service fare. “Sorry,” she repeats.

“No problem at all,” Dean says. “What can I get for you?”

“We’ll take a black coffee and a triple salted caramel mocha, extra whip,” she says, leaning forward, just a bit, as if divulging some great secret. She smiles, sharp and sweet. “Mediums, please.”

Dean bites back a laugh, flicking a look to the man at her side, who’s either oblivious to or completely unconcerned with his – wife? girlfriend? co-worker? – companion’s blatant flirting.

But if there’s one thing Dean loves about his job, it’s the free pass. Flirting is Barista 101, and Dean has had a _lot_ of practice. “Sure thing,” he drawls, making sure to give the lady a leisurely once-over as he rings up the order – a little young for Dean to want to seriously consider it, but not exactly a hardship. “That’ll be…$6.21,” he says with a wink.

The woman beams as she hands over the bills to pay, obviously pleased to see Dean match her blow-for-blow. She drops her change plus a couple loose ones into the tip jar at Dean’s elbow, keeping Dean’s eye all the while, and he knows it’s all in good fun but, still, he’s gotta hand it to her, girl’s got chops.

The pair move to the side and Dean’s surprised to see someone else step up to take their place, a short queue having apparently formed while Dean’s attention was otherwise occupied. Garth’s in the back and Dean considers calling him up to take care of the orders, but he’s pretty sure the dude’s pulling a fresh batch of muffins, and it’s nothing Dean can’t handle himself. He takes the next order (black coffee) and sneaks a look over to Red and Mr. Broccoli, Red now espousing the wonders of a good, homemade cranberry sauce while Mr. Broccoli squints into the middle distance, looking vaguely pained. Dean valiantly stifles his snickers through his last exchange (soy cappuccino, white chocolate macadamia cookie) and moves to making drinks.

Dean sets the grinder to go for the espresso then sets up two cups for pour overs. Dripper, filter, two scoops grinds, repeat. Dean fills a single long-spouted kettle from the hot water dispenser and slowly pours over the grinds for each cup, making sure to saturate both the filter and coffee completely before leaving it to drip. Moving over to the espresso machine, Dean takes up a clean portafilter from the drying rack and tamps in a measure of the fresh grind. Two shot glasses down on the drip tray and he lets the machine do its magic, pulling the milk from the fridge under the counter and giving the coffees their second pour in the interim.

Dean empties the espresso into a fresh cup then taps out the portafilter into the trash, exchanging it for a single puller for the mocha’s extra shot. A quick purge of the wand and he steams the milk, careful as always, because nothing kills a coffee like burnt dairy. Third shot in, three pumps mocha, two pumps caramel and a pour of milk, nothing fancy because why bother, though he makes up for the lack of latte art with a tall and neatly formed swirl of whipped cream. A final pour for the coffees and a sprinkle of coarse salt for the mocha and that’s two orders down, one to go.

He pulls a few sleeves for the cups, and it’s only after he uncaps a sharpie from the pen cup by the dispenser that he realizes his mistake of not taking names. With a shrug, he drops the marker and turns back to face the front, brings the drinks to the designated pick-up portion of the counter.

Red and Mr. Broccoli stand a few feet to the side, angled away, seeming to have fallen into companionable silence as they wait.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean calls, catching the pair’s attention and allowing a bit of the previous flirtation to seep back into his tone, teasing and light. “Salted caramel mocha?” He holds up the beverage in question, extra whip towering out over the lip of the cup.

They both stare, a beat long enough it occurs to Dean he might’ve fucked up. Then the scruffy brunette takes a step forward and the redhead’s expression lights on something downright _thrilled_ , like Dean about to get clocked one by her possessive boyfriend is the best thing that’s rolled around all year.

The guy squares up to Dean front-and-center, and Dean’s halfway to an apology when he catches Dean’s eye and holds, not looking angry so much as calculating. He reaches out and calmly retrieves the mocha from Dean’s hold, still hovering awkwardly over the counter between them.

“Thanks, snookums,” the man deadpans, giving nothing away, and with a brisk turn on his heel is striding towards the door; and while it should be impossible with his casual speed and the stubborn lack of an indoor, gusty breeze, the man’s tan trench gives the strongest impression of dramatic billowing Dean’s ever actually seen. Because this is real life, not a goddamn Billy Wilder film. And also, _what the fuck._

Dean’s startled from his gaping at the stranger’s back by the sudden appearance of the redhead. She snags up the black coffee waiting on the counter and beams up at Dean’s no doubt unattractive side-swiped appearance. She winks. “He’s single, too.”

Drink claimed, the redhead turns to join the man, now waiting at the exit. As Dean watches, the man lifts his own cup to take a slow sip, then demurely thumbs away the resulting bit of whipped cream that clings to his upper lip. Those lips curve on a lazy smile, and Dean’s eyes guiltily jerk up to lock with the man’s own; instantly demolishing any hope that Dean hadn’t been caught staring.

The redhead reaches the door and shoulders it open, and the next second they’re gone, down the street and away. But there was absolutely no mistaking it, not a chance. The look to Dean, right as the man walked out the door. The barest moment, there and gone; the spark on something bright, teasing and triumphant.

Dean feels a laugh of pure disbelief bubble up from somewhere deep, uncontainable, and finds himself smiling uncomfortably wide out across the mostly-empty shop.

Oh, it is _on._

 

\---

 

For all that Dean thinks on the encounter in the subsequent days, he doesn’t really expect the man, or even the woman with him, to return any time soon. Dean works the shop more often than not, these days, and he’s all but positive he’s neither seen nor served either of them before the Incident, as Dean’s taken to calling it, if only in his head.

So it’s surprising, to say the least, when Dean looks up from restocking scones to see none other than the man himself, trenchcoat and all, walk through the door not more than a week after that first visit.

Dean ducks his head under the pretence of resealing the pastry case, scrubs a rough hand across his mouth in an effort to wipe away his reflexive grin. He straightens and meets the man’s knowing smirk with a smile much more controlled, steps to the register to hip-check Charlie standing there, interrupting her mid-greeting.

“Hey,” he says, directed to Charlie but eyes still on the man across the counter, “I’ll take this one.”

“Uh…” and Dean doesn’t need to look to know Charlie’s got her brows up high, full of questions. “Sure,” she says, stepping aside. And, yeah, Dean’s definitely getting the third degree later.

For now, though, he props himself casually against the counter and allows his grin to spread a slight bit wider. “Howdy.”

“Aloha,” the man returns, poker face absolute, and Dean instantly breaks, barks a laugh sure to be heard straight back to the kitchen.

Dean straightens, fighting to contain his chuckles. “So. Couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“The coffee was excellent,” the man compliments, which Dean accepts as his due, because of course it was. “My sister and I were glad to discover you,” he continues, a hint of slyness re-entering his expression.

 _Sister._ Well, what’dya know.

“Let’s see if I can’t top it,” Dean says. “What’ll it be?”

“I’ll take…” the man trails, gaze drifting up to scan the menu board, “the snickerdoodle macchiato, please.”

Dean’s grin returns full-force. “You like ‘em sweet, huh?”

The man eyes Dean, speculative. “With a kick,” he says, low, and Dean feels his entire face burn in a sudden flush. Man, this guy just doesn’t _quit._

Dean attempts to bury his fluster under the busy work of ringing up the order and exchanging payment but, judging by the return of the man’s smirk, doesn’t much succeed. “Name?” Dean manages, and can only hope it doesn’t come out quite as strangled as he fears.

“Castiel,” the man replies. He smiles at Dean’s pause. “Cas, if you’d prefer.”

“Cool,” Dean says, nodding at nothing in particular, “cool cool.” Oh, god, _not cool._ “I’m Dean.”

“Yes.” Cas’s eyes flick to the name tag pinned on the breast of his uniform apron, and Dean has the battling urge to either smack himself in the face or flee the scene completely. “Hello, Dean.”

Fleeing wins, and Dean quickly and efficiently brews the macchiato, exactly right, no matter how hyper-aware he feels of the weight of a certain blue-eyed stare at his back. He pulls a sleeve and a sharpie, and then.

Well, Dean may’ve lost the battle, but this is _war._

Dean spins around with the completed drink in-hand. He leans to the pick-up counter and smoothly slides the cup across to Cas, who seems somewhat surprised at the sudden return of Dean’s swagger. He takes up the drink and immediately hones in on the bold black message scrawled across its cardboard sleeve.

Cas’s eyes light on something impossibly bright, and his smile spreads wide and goofy and _perfect._ _‘Snickerdoodle for Sugar Lips,’_ the cup informs, along with an atrociously lopsided sketch of a fresh cookie, though Cas probably got the gist.

“See you around, Cas,” Dean says, dropping a wink.

“Yes,” Cas agrees, trying and failing to school his features back to neutral. “You will.”

 

\---

 

After that, it definitely becomes…a thing. Cas comes in, once a week, sometimes twice, sometimes alone, sometimes not, and does his ready best to wrong-foot Dean with his steady eyes and slow smiles and bone dry, off-balanced humor that never fails to leave Dean laughing, even days later. Dean, though, _always_ gets in the last word.

In what Dean is sure is yet another part of the game, Cas never does settle on a favorite drink, even for all the times he’s visited. He’s tried everything from the hazelnut breve ( _‘Mornin’, Sunshine!’_ ) to the cookies ‘n creme frap ( _‘Hey, Hot Stuff’_ ) to the peppermint mocha ( _Ho Ho Ho-ly Honey Buns!’_ ), an unspoken and ongoing mission to forever keep Dean guessing. And fuck if that doesn’t make Dean like him all the more.

Today, though, is Valentine’s Day. Today, Dean is going to _win._

Also, it’s getting to the point where Dean has become legitimately worried Charlie may make good on her threats to kill him ( _“—as slowly as I have suffered it’s been FOUR MONTHS oh my GOD, Dean!”_ ) if he doesn’t make a move.

Cas comes in at mid-day, same as almost every Wednesday for the past four months, because Cas insists team meetings are best endured following a liberal dose of caffeine. Because Wednesdays are Cas’s weekly storyboard meetings. Because Cas is in marketing. Because these are things, apparently, Dean now knows.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean shakily greets as Cas steps up to the counter; one part bravado buried under two parts _oh shit_ but hey, he’s got this.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says. His hands rise to lightly grip the counter’s edge. A second later they loosen and fall, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of his coat.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous.

“Today I’ll have the raspberry vanilla latte,” Cas says, with an air of determination and an odd sort of emphasis on _Today._ He doesn’t quite meet Dean’s eyes as he hands over payment, and suddenly the weight in Dean’s pocket seems a hundred times heavier than it had before.

Dean determinedly does not let his hands shake as he sets to brewing Cas’s coffee. Today’s sleeve had, embarrassingly, taken Dean four tries to get exactly right. The same sleeve Dean had carried through his shifts the whole past week, ready for when the moment came.

Dean pulls the sleeve from his apron pocket and slips it onto the cup, one raspberry vanilla latte. He takes a breath and turns, sees Cas still hovering at the register, halfway to dropping something into the tip jar. They both freeze, a second of wide-eyed surprise and Cas guiltily jerks back, the white folded paper he holds swiftly disappearing back into the sleeve of his trench.

Dean stares, asks, “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” Cas quickly returns, then grimaces at his own transparency.

“Uh huh,” Dean says, slow. “I’ll, uh.” He swallows down a sudden rise of giddiness, and cautiously extends the latte out between them, hand effectively covering the message along its side. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

Cas’s eyes narrow in on the cup in Dean’s hold. A moment’s hesitation, and his hand slowly lifts, placing the note to the counter and sliding it towards Dean.

Dean steps forward and Cas takes the cup. Dean retrieves the note from the counter and carefully unfolds the small scrap of paper.

 _‘(816) 357-8467, —Castiel M.,’_ Dean reads.

 _‘Bee my Valentine?’_ says the other, with a buzzing bumblebee floating across the length of the sleeve.

Dean looks up to see Cas staring right back, smile shining something fierce. Dean can’t help but dip his head, biting his lip against a grin of his own.

“So,” Dean says, “what’dya say, angel?”

Cas wraps both hands around the warmth of his cup, holding it close. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://remmyme.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
